Tiptoe Through These Shining Lights
by Lamone
Summary: Michiru draws, Haruka falls over, Michiru dreams, Haruka drives. A series of firsts between Haruka and Michiru, each tiny event significant in its own right. AU.


Tiptoe Through These Shining Lights

**Author's Note**: This note will get a little long, but it also explains the premise of the story, so please bear with me. In short, this is a fic (and this account will hold a series of fics) about an AU in which, instead of being senshi, Haruka and Michiru are actresses involved in the Takarazuka Revue – as was intended as part of the original conception of the two characters. For more information, please visit our profile page.

No profits are made from this piece and no infringements, copyright or otherwise, intended with this work. Enjoy.

---

The first time Michiru contemplates drawing Haruka, she pauses mid-stretch and balances precariously on the sole of one foot as she reflects upon the thought.

She'd like to consider Haruka through an artist's pair of eyes - and does, for the most part, appreciate the way the light sets fire to her gold-blonde hair, the shadows between the crook of her elbow and Michiru's hand as they spin in sync to a dance step, the sleek lines of her legs as she crosses their dressing room on bare feet smaller than one might have first expected – but she knows that it is not all. As she watches Haruka stretch in the other corner of the room, her eyes grey with concentration and narrowed with intent, Michiru knows that it is far, _far_ from all.

There is no image formed yet in her mind. To attempt to capture the essence of so multi-faceted an individual is, of course, the challenge and fun in this endeavour. As with everything Haruka, Michiru plans to savour every moment of it.

"Michiru?"

The question is not unjustified. Michiru is _watching_ Haruka without quite looking _at_ her, and it would be rude if it were not for the thoroughly unobtrusive and rather appreciative way she casts her gaze. Michiru meets Haruka's eyes unflinchingly. She takes a moment of pause, there is an amused twist to her smile (for which Haruka shoots another quizzical glance and Michiru does not respond) and then she answers the not-question with one of her own.

"Will you pose for me?"

Michiru does not need to churn over the thought. She is aware of what she is trying to capture – of _all_ she is trying to do – and knows that Haruka will be too now that she has been asked. For her and now it is enough.

If the lack of segue and apparent lack of thought behind the question has surprised Haruka, it doesn't show beyond a very small quirk to her eyebrows. Haruka doesn't laugh, and the amused remark she _doesn't_ make is conspicuous only through its absence. Michiru knows that Haruka is very aware as to what she is being asked – if anyone can seek to uncover with their art, to interpret and puzzle out more than she already has, it is Michiru – and surely to refuse would not be entirely unwarranted.

Haruka doesn't refuse, as Michiru had known she wouldn't. They're professionals at this game, after all. Haruka assents with two short words – 'of course' – that deny there ever having been even a hint of hesitation, and does not begin to tease Michiru about her motives until much, much later.

Michiru never shares the drawing with anyone but Haruka because it is never relevant to anyone else. It sits in her sketchbook between two fresh pages (an inspiration enveloped in blank slates) and she knows never to treasure this, her interpretation, more than she relishes in the real thing.

---

The first time – or, all right, one of the _many_ times, but as far as Haruka would admit it is always a first - Haruka is over-zealous in demonstrating a step and misjudges the distance between the raised platform and the floor, she thinks it is entirely worth it just for the expression on Michiru's face. It is no less composed and no less elegant, but the word _priceless_ fails to describe the extent to which the expression is articulate in conveying her amusement. She does not rush to questions along the strain of "are you all right", but rather allows the heavy and echoing crash to fully dissipate into the air of the room as she watches Haruka lever herself to her feet with nary a stagger. If Haruka's smirk is a hint defensive, neither mentions it.

"Don't tell me that wouldn't have looked excellent on stage," Haruka murmurs, her voice husky with amusement and deep with a charm designed to make almost anyone forget past transgressions. _Almost_ anyone.

Michiru's voice should be Haruka's first hint that she is being teased – moreso even than Michiru's smile as she steps from the warm shadows into the unforgivingly stark light of the stage. "Will you say you did it on purpose?"

The ghost of laughter dances across Haruka's lips; she's enjoying this more than she lets on. "Of course. What other reason have I?"

Judging by Michiru's smile, this is precisely the answer she'd hoped for. (If anyone asks, Haruka could surely plead disorientation on account of the really _very_ bright lights that threaten to drown them in their intensity). Michiru's suggestion is mild and professional in its inoffensiveness. "Distraction, perhaps?"

"What reason have I to – "

It takes a beat of silence for Michiru to slip around Haruka to where her bag rests, and it takes that same beat of silence for understanding to dawn. The thin line of Haruka's smile is all but visible from the back of her head, her entire form radiates with the amusement of it. She turns to face Michiru. "You're teasing me."

Michiru's eyes are curious and innocent as she rummages through her bag, somehow appearing entirely aware of what has happened without possibly having any hand in orchestrating it. "Here," she finally offers, holding out a bandaid. "Your knee is bleeding." She wears a smile that indicates her very conscious choice in ignoring Haruka's rather pointed complaint.

Haruka brushes off the offer, bending at the waist to examine her own knee. "It's a scratch."

As ever when Haruka is incorrigible, Michiru doesn't quite contradict her directly. Instead, she leaves the bandaid on a nearby table with a firm look and slips into a nearby room for a glass of water, leaving Haruka to the wounded pride she wouldn't ever admit to having, since of _course_ this entire sequence of events were definitely and most exquisitely planned. When Michiru returns, they practice the step away from sharp objects, again and again, bodies slicing through the air in perfect sync, until it is flawless.

Haruka is not sentimental enough – nor, frankly, ridiculous enough – to even contemplate treasuring the bandaid as a priced memento from a moment in their history. Instead, she carries it in her pocket in _case_ of future need (and for Michiru's expression when she sees it again). A day some months into the future, Haruka throws that pair of trousers into the washing machine without thinking very hard about it, and spends the next few days picking paper and threads out of the lining of her pockets. If Michiru notices, she does not comment, and no tangible reminder remains of the incident.

Of course, a physical reminder is hardly necessary when Haruka doubts she shall forget the incident, just as a physical reminder of Michiru is rarely necessary when her smile is already written all over that particular bruise and all over every inch of Haruka's consciousness.

---

The first time Michiru dreams about Haruka, the dream is entirely too lucid to not be a little disquieting.

They meet again, years later, on the sort of autumn afternoon made for hot tea, short scarves, and long conversations. Haruka is still self-possessed – a cocky half-smile and a laughing glint in her eyes are her only makeup and they are enough. Haruka is still blonde – her hair has remained more or less the same length, careless in its perfection. Haruka is still tall – taller than the man she slips past on her way to the vending machine, taller than the vending machine with its neon lights and glass display shelves, taller than Michiru as the latter approaches, wondering if the tip-tap of her shoes are as familiar to Haruka's ears as they are to her own. Haruka is still very composed - one eyebrow dances lightly up her forehead, somehow conveying a distinct lack of surprise in its expression of the opposite.

And even in this dream-vision, when the lines between imagination and reality blur, when she can't quite see Haruka's expression and yet can feel it all the same, some things are distinct. For example, she knows, rather distinctly, that Haruka looks happy.

She doesn't know if Haruka _is_ happy and it bothers her. She doesn't know how long has passed, nor why; she _does_ know that they are strangers to each other now and yet still open books to each other, and she is unsure if that too bothers her. The dream fades into incoherence before the scene has a chance to play out and she wakes with a distinct feeling of listlessness to which she's unaccustomed.

Michiru does not dismiss the dream as 'meaningless', but as with every potential situation she's indulged in contemplating, she gives it no bearing in her life. She does not remember how long it takes before she forgets the dream entirely.

---

The first time Haruka dreams about Michiru, they are being chased through a forest by robot sheep. She smirks to herself, kicks her blanket into a more comfortable position in its tangle around her feet, and goes back to sleep.

---

The first time Michiru is offered a ride on the back of Haruka's motorbike, the helmet Haruka hands her casually feels heavier than it should.

The skies are grey and heavy with presages of rain; Haruka's offer had rolled off her tongue almost as if she were not conscious of the words, and Michiru's acceptance had been far _too_ pleasantly surprised to not be intentional. There is nothing to this other than one co-worker offering to speed another home before the grey sky drenches the city in rain, of course. Or, at least, there _should_ be nothing more to it. Michiru doubts that the reason neither has allowed it to happen before is simply one of the occasion not having arisen.

Perhaps Haruka shouldn't have asked. Michiru makes no judgment on that - there is no value in the _shouldn't_ of what has happened when both parties have made conscious choices to be where they are. Perhaps Haruka shouldn't have asked, but the crux of the matter is that she did – in that one whimsical, impulsive moment, Haruka decided to ask – and now that the question had been posed, it would have been thoroughly impossible on many levels to refuse.

To refuse would be to confess the reasons behind a refusal, after all, and she doubts Haruka would stand for _that._

There is something exhilarating about the speed of a motorbike that Michiru cannot deny, even though this is far from her sport of choice. Haruka's waist is warm and familiar through the leather of her jacket; how many times has she placed these hands on Haruka's skin as they dance, the contact professional and clinically detached, just as how now she grips Haruka's torso firmly for no ostensible reason other than physical security?

From the way the redhead at the stoplights stares at her with poorly-concealed envy, Michiru knows that she has landed herself into an unintentionally picturesque situation. She does not mind it, although – and she doesn't _see_ Haruka's smile, but the redhead's reaction is telling enough – she wonders if she needs to envy _her_ the freedom of Haruka's charm instead.

She doesn't. It would be childish to envy the world Haruka's charm when she has access to Haruka in all her forms.

Judging by the weather, they arrive at Michiru's home just in time, not too quickly nor too slowly – which should surely be enough, or enough that neither should have cause to ask whether the trip really did take longer or shorter than they wished. Michiru's hair slides from her helmet in one flowing wave and as she brushes it out of her eyes, she catches the end of an expression on Haruka's face as it is replaced by cordial nonchalance. She doesn't inquire after the first expression.

"Thank you for the ride." Her voice is so properly polite that it's hard to conceal the words she _isn't_ saying – not that she would try to conceal much from Haruka. She knows the words that might here be spoken, the question she might ask.

She does not ask. Not today. She wants to – wants to invite Haruka inside, make tea and conversation, gravitate towards the centre of the couch as they discuss work and leisure by the light of the too-bright desk-lamp - and it makes her breath catch just thinking about it, enough that she can't even try to imagine the real thing.

But she won't force them across the line they've drawn, not when everything in her body says that it is not the right moment by far. Her eyes are soft and Haruka seems to understand. Michiru will not insult either of them by lowering them to flimsy excuses, and so she doesn't comment that Haruka should be getting home as the rain seems closer with every minute. Instead, she thanks Haruka for the ride and does not comment upon the soft, almost unnoticeable mixture of gratefulness and wistfulness in Haruka's eyes, knowing that it is reflected in her own.

Michiru is indoors before the dust has cleared from Haruka's departure. No need to linger like a lovesick schoolgirl, after all.

---

The first time Haruka says the words "I love you" to Michiru's very receptive expression, she is not speaking to Michiru at all; they are actors on a stage and there is an almost-strange mask of passion on Michiru's face, its intensity carried fiercely and fittingly by the features that usually remain so composed. There is a collective intake of breath around the room from almost all their audience. Two otokoyakus lingering in the back look somewhat unimpressed and if Setsuna is impressed at all, she shows it in _that_ particular approving gleam to her eyes which only a handful of people know how to interpret.

Michiru's response fits perfectly into the rhythm of the scene and a shorter musumeyaku in the front gasps with glee before she is shushed unceremoniously by a friend beside her. Haruka's eyes are dark and serious, Michiru's eyes are keen and searching. It fits the scene and it suits them.

They reconvene backstage after rehearsals.

"You performed well." The careful choice of words – such a conspicuous deviation from the standard "thank you for your hard work" – does not lose its meaning on Haruka. Michiru need not take the time to even wonder if the fact that it was a 'performance' will be challenged by Haruka, and as expected Haruka acknowledges her meaning with no more than a smile, her words seemingly oblivious to the depths of the conversation.

"And you," Harka responds, shortly but not without warmth.

"Thank you. There is, of course, much room for improvement." What on anyone else might have been a show of modesty is in Michiru mildly-expressed challenge. Haruka's crooked grin matches the one in Michiru's own heart, expressed though the latter's is by no more than a small twist to one corner of her lips.

"I'm sure we shall both try our best." Haruka is speaking softly; it seems almost irreverent to be louder than this in the quiet shadows behind the curtains. Softly though she speaks, there is no hiding the laughter in her voice. Michiru's matches her on every note.

"I look forward to working with you."

And indeed, she does.

---

The first time Michiru contemplates telling _Haruka_ she loves her, she entertains the thought the way an artist entertains an inspiration that has rather sprung on her mind from no discernible origin.

Across the room, the blonde is warming up her voice, its musky tones in perfect synchrony with the muffled sounds from beyond their closed door as their fellow actresses bustle up and down the corridor. Michiru is pinning her hair into the elaborately contained style that is necessary for it be contained by the wig that rests before her on the table. This is their world and – as the gentle, almost _content_ way Haruka smiles says louder than anything – this is where they are comfortable. It is who they are, and Michiru cannot regret that.

They will leave this room and some dances later Haruka will say those words, and they will deny (but not to themselves or each other) that the words mean more to them, as people, than they should. They will say the words a thousand times without meaning them and perhaps it is fitting. If Michiru should decide to ever voice the words to Haruka and mean them (and she's quite sure she'll never rely on _words_ for that) - well, she thinks that the first time she gives voice to the words, she'll have paid Haruka the sentiment a thousand times already, and will a thousand times more in ways much more creative than mere words.

The ironic humour of her situation does not escape her, but to Michiru this thought is also somewhat comforting. She chooses to think no further than that.


End file.
